


One Town Is Very Like Another

by rose_griffes



Series: Frisbee fics [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Food Issues, Oedipal Issues, Slow Burn, accidental angst, canon anxiety issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-04 09:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15838410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_griffes/pseuds/rose_griffes
Summary: Gaby wants to learn chess.





	1. The Ultimate Test of Cerebral Fitness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story sprang out of writing [Trajectory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15677694/chapters/36423519), but you don't have to read it for this one to make sense.
> 
> If you hover the cursor over any non-English words, the translation will pop up.
> 
> Edited to add: looking back at what I've reblogged on tumblr since falling into this fandom, I have a sneaking suspicion that I stole the idea of Rushi from [some meta by blueincandescence](http://rose-griffes.tumblr.com/post/175999475584/what-are-5-things-youd-chang-about-tmfu-2015).

**July 1963  
Groton, Connecticut**

A month ago she went flying over the wall dividing her city, holding onto an American man while a Russian giant was in close pursuit. Three weeks ago Waverly sent her directly from that first mission into her second, the three of them a newly-minted team. 

London next, while her two teammates went to different destinations for their original agencies. Gaby worked nonstop with Waverly's eccentric circle of friends to cram years of training into two weeks--training that wasn't available during those years of waiting behind the wall. 

And now this mission in the USA; it's a failure, from Gaby's perspective. No verifiable answers about the Americans' missing submarine, although the two superpowers haven't blown each other up over it. It's not a blemish on U.N.C.L.E.'s record, given their unofficial role here. Nor on her own short record, for that matter; Gaby 'coordinated the mutual sharing of information' while still 'maintaining discretionary control over top-secret information' to the best of her abilities. Better than her own best, in fact; she modeled her diplomatic tones on Waverly's good moments and Solo's blunt moments, as needed. 

The KGB's official representative is a boor, but she soldiers through it with a fake smile, teeth deliberately bared in full display. She hates his accent, all heavy Rs and twisted vowels. Four days of nightmare fodder; the sound dredges up her worst childhood memories. 

At least Solo has beach visits in his role. Gaby is touring stuffy submarines, walking through endless badly-lit hallways in the American Naval base, or lying awake in a too-big, too-soft hotel bed. She can't even talk to Illya in those brief moments when she catches a glimpse of him. 

They have one short break together, all three of them. Officially it's to share intel, but Solo brings a plastic toy disk that he calls a Frisbee. They take turns throwing it across the hotel ballroom, which is fun; even more fun when Solo loses to both of them after they make up a point system and start keeping score. 

The next day they're playing their roles again. Gaby's knee-length skirt and matching jacket feel like a prison uniform by then. 

It's a relief when the call comes through that they're done for now. Waverly's second-in-command Rushi offers her the news; Gaby is impressed at the woman's chipper tones over the phone line, considering that it must be three a.m. in London. 

Gaby shimmies around the room as she puts on pedal pushers and a sleeveless shirt. Then she heads down to the hotel bar. Not _her_ hotel's bar; Illya's paranoia has rubbed off on her in the short time they've known each other. Instead she wanders down the long blocks parallel to the beach, to a brightly-lit hotel catering to the swimwear crowd. Maybe she'll dance, she thinks, and decides to try a new drink while she's here. 

The bartender winks at her as he slides a rum and coke her way. She takes one gulp and grimaces, almost coughing with the shock. _This_ is what the bartender thinks of as good liquor? It tastes like medicine. She can't tell which part is the alcohol and which part the syrupy American drink. 

Gaby quickly swallows the rest of it, determined not to allow her money to go to waste. Then another identical glass slides down the bar towards her. "Courtesy of the man in the yellow swim trunks!" the bartender yells over the noise of the band and crowd. 

She swivels on the bar stool; yellow swim trunks waves at her with his own rum and coke in hand; he then takes a sip, attempting to look suave. 

There's no trusting a man who likes this drink, Gaby decides. She drains the glass anyway, counts out the American money to pay for her first drink and leaves it on the bar. Yellow swim trunks will have to drink alone. She's suddenly not in the mood for this crowd either, so she bypasses the dance floor.

Walking back to her hotel, the ocean breeze tugs at her hair. She spins a few times, and it feels like her stomach is spinning even faster; it twirls on even when she stops. 

Stupid rum and coke. 

Her hotel bed is still too soft. Gaby sits in the middle of it, letting the sand from inside her shoes trickle onto the bedspread. She takes a quick mouthful of vodka from her flask and swishes it around to get rid of the medicinal taste, and then another mouthful just because. Because of lost submarines and leering sailors. Because of American drinks and Russian accents.

The wrong Russian accent. The wrong man speaking with a Russian accent. 

This bed is too big for one average-sized woman. Gaby leans down from the edge of the bed, determined to grab the folder on the floor without standing up. Instead she tumbles to the floor, landing on hands and knees. No scrapes and probably no bruises thanks to the fuzzy carpet that covers the entire room. Not that she likes that either; it feels wrong against her skin, like an enormous cluster of caterpillars crawling across the floor. 

She grabs the file and climbs back on the bed: precious folder with a map of Groton inside, and Illya's hotel name and room number written in pencil across the back. 

He has to know by now that the mission has been called off. And it's only--she squints at the alarm clock on the bedside table--it's only just before midnight. That's not late at all. Not _really_ late. 

She picks up the heavy phone and dials the numbers. It takes her three tries; the holes of the rotary dial slip out from her fingertips and she curses at the phone in German. 

The hotel clerk connects her to Illya's room; after five rings he answers with an American-sounding "Hello?" If she didn't know him well, she might think he was sitting next to the phone, tidy and buttoned-up in that American business suit and wide awake while waiting on the telphone to ring. 

But she can tell: he was asleep. It makes her want to giggle, so her voice has a breathy catch. "Illya," she says, and then realizes she doesn't know why she called. What was she going to ask? 

"Gaby? Are you ok?" 

She doesn't like his assumption at all. "Why wouldn't I be ok?" she demands. 

"You sounded--strange." 

"Hah!" Gaby says. "You only say that because you were asleep. Don't deny it." 

"Yes, I was asleep." His voice blurs a bit and she thinks maybe he's trying not to yawn. "Why would I deny this?" 

"Because you like to make us think you're a machine and better than the rest of us humans. But even tall people need sleep. Maybe you need _more_ sleep, even." 

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Finally, accusingly, he asks, "Are you drunk?" 

"No," she says, sticking her chin out. "Only two rum and cokes." Or is it _rums and coke_ , she wonders. "And they tasted terrible, and I didn't even want the second one, and so they don't count." 

And then two mouthfuls of vodka and maybe there was another sip or two after that, but that's too much to add to the other sentences, so she doesn't. 

"Why did you order second one if you didn't want it?" 

"I didn't. This man in the yellow swim trunks bought it for me." She yawns; the stretch in her jaw pleases her, so she does it again. 

"Is man in the yellow swim trunks there now?" Illya's accent gets thicker, and this time it's the right Russian with the accent. Even if it's still not her favorite accent. She doesn't like it, but she likes _him_ , and it's how he's supposed to sound. Not all fake American, like when he answered the phone. 

"Gaby?" 

"What?" 

"Is man in yellow swim trunk there now?"

"No, why would he be?" What a silly question.

"Oh," says Illya. "окэй. Why are you calling?" 

She hums. "Why not call? The mission is kaputt. We have time to talk. Unless you are leaving right away?" 

She doesn't want him to go. Someday he'll go and never come back, and she won't even know when it's that day. He'll choose Russia over U.N.C.L.E., over her. Or Russia will choose him, and he won't fight it, because that's all that he thinks he has. All that he allows in. 

"No. No, I'm not leaving right away. Are you leaving soon?" 

"In three days. I get to enjoy the beach." Rushi told her that's what Waverly said: for her to enjoy the beach.

Maybe she should go to the beach now? No, not now. The sand is cold. 

"You cannot go to the beach now," Illya tells her. Did he know what she was thinking? Or did she say that idea out loud? Maybe he just guessed.

"You should come to my room," she tells him. "I have an idea." She remembers her excuse for calling now. She bought it her first day in Groton, when she found out that Illya would be here too. 

"What is your idea, Gaby?" He sounds indulgent, but also impatient. Gaby frowns. 

The idea, yes. He asked her about the idea. "Chess," she announces. "I want you to teach me how to play chess." 

Her foster brother played chess. She wanted to learn, but he went West when she was thirteen. Gaby had been an angry bundle of a girl, too impatient to learn. And then her brother was gone. 

Chess is safe, she thinks. Chess is a way to ration out the moments that Illya is near and not get too attached. 

Gaby knows all about rationing. 

She doesn't know if he'll accept. If he'll be a good teacher or restless. But she wants to tease him, to see him flustered, to watch him as he plays and try to guess what he's thinking.

"I could teach you this, yes." His voice rumbles in her ear, and it's--pleasant. Pleasing. Gaby stretches out on the bed, pointing her toes and sighing. "But I don't want to teach drunk Gaby." 

Not so pleasing now, that voice. "Why not?" 

"Because drunk Gaby won't remember the rules." 

"I will too," she argues. 

"Also, drunk Gaby will want to dance."

That is probably true. "But there's no radio in here. Or record player," she tells him.

"I do not think you would let this stop you."

She pouts. "But I want to see you now." 

"I will teach you chess," he finally says, "When you are not drunk. If you invite me again." His voice curls upwards, a hint of uncertainty mixed in with the practical answer. 

She huffs out a breath. "Maybe tomorrow?" 

"Yes," he says, and his voice is soft. "Maybe. You ask me tomorrow." 

"Ok." The phone is warm against her ear, sticky against her skin. She holds it there anyway. He's still on the line, his breathing an unsyncopated rhythm. 

"May you have good dreams," he tells her. It is ridiculously formal and sweet, she thinks. 

"Schlaf gut, Illya." The words tumble out in German, and she feels oddly vulnerable. He's heard her speaking German before, of course, but not soft like that. Not to him.

She waits a minute, until the hotel operator comes on the line asks if she would like to place a call. Gaby hangs up and curls on her side. The sand itches, but she doesn't get up to shake it off the bedspread. 

Tomorrow. She will ask him again tomorrow to teach her chess, and then she'll have that memory stored away, just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of us who grew up with Coke and root beer, it's hard to realize just how weird those tastes can be if you're not trained to think of them as good. 
> 
> The first hotel to install telephones in guest rooms was the Netherlands hotel in New York City, back in 1894. 
> 
> Gaby's hotel room could have had a radio as well; I just didn't want one for purposes of this fic. There was probably a television, though. 1947 marked the first year a hotel put TVs in guest rooms, also in New York City. 
> 
> Wall-to-wall carpeting was available in the US in the 1950s, but not widely installed. The 1960s and 70s were boom years for American home carpeting. Gaby's home(s) in East Germany would probably have had tile or wooden floors.


	2. Looking at the board, not looking at the city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sober Gaby, ready to be taught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated for content and characters.
> 
> [Chapter two of Trajectory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15677694/chapters/36797565) (mostly) happens right before this chapter. Short summary of those events: Solo sets up a beach game of Frisbee for points; both Napoleon and Illya lose to Gaby. Her prize is to be a bottle of expensive whiskey, paid for (rather than stolen) by Solo.
> 
> Many thanks to she who apparently never sleeps, [diadema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema) for beta-reading.
> 
> Jan is pronounced like the word yawn.
> 
> Story title and chapter title from the song _One Night in Bangkok_ , used in the musical _Chess_.

"An American, a Russian, and a German walk into a bar." Solo's expression radiates loose amusement at his own words, although Gaby doesn't know why that's so funny. 

"This is a liquor store, not a bar," says Illya. They've already been to a bar.

"That's not how the joke goes, though." Solo opens the door to the liquor store and gestures for them to go through. 

After they're inside Gaby says, "An American, a Russian, and a German. You put me last on the list, but I won your Frisbee game. I should be first. I even went through the door here first." 

Napoleon sighs, the way he does when he thinks they're supposed to know how his American mind works. Illya nods at her in support of her claim, but Solo has moved on, walking around the store and explaining various types of alcohol. 

"What you're calling whiskey is probably what we Americans call Scotch," he says, and then rambles on about filters, ageing, and different grains. Gaby tunes him out; she trails behind, fingers tracing the different shapes of the bottles, examining the colors of the liquids within. 

Illya walks with her, studying her hands as she moves. 

Gaby winds up close to the clerk and ignores the remainder of Solo's lecture. "Which whiskey--or Scotch--" she adds pointedly, "Is the most expensive?" 

They must seem a funny trio, she thinks. Solo, handsome and self-assured in his linen shirt and swim trunks that actually do pass for shorts. She, in a purple beach wrap as a would-be dress, demanding the most expensive alcohol instead of looking for her usual bargain.

And the Red Peril, of course: a visual pun in the wine-red swim trunks Napoleon provided for him. On Illya's feet are those strange thin-strapped sandals that Solo calls some funny name she can't remember. (Illya complained about them earlier, but as they can't go into bars or liquor stores barefoot, he wears them anyway.) 

Gaby doesn't let Illya carry the bottle after Solo pays for it. It's her prize, after all. She does let him carry her day clothes, though, after they retrieve them from the beachside lockers. They make their way to the taxi stand--enterprising Taxifahrer waiting to drive the tired, drunk, or sunburned back to more distant hotels. 

She gives Illya a look, and he follows her cue by telling Napoleon that he'll share a taxi with her. His hotel is only a mile farther than hers anyway; that's the excuse they give. Solo squints for a moment, and she wants to laugh at the outrage that crosses his face next, because he's figured it out. She used his strategy against him during his silly Frisbee game, and she got Illya to help her; now Napoleon knows. 

Gaby clambers into the taxi first, carefully holding the bottle. Illya slides next to her, knees bumping into the empty chair in front of him. She gives an address to the the Taxifahrer: halfway between their two hotels.

Turning her head, she can see Napoleon through the back window. When he notices that he has her attention, he makes a series of hand gestures in combination with raised eyebrows that she translates to _drink_ and _sex_. 

She assumes it's his advice on what to do with the man in the seat next to her, based on the lewd expression on his face. Gaby snorts. 

"What?" 

"Nothing. Just Solo." She doesn't say anything about the gestures; instead she tells Illya, "He's figured out that we plotted against him." 

"You have good mind for strategy." 

"Thank you for helping," she tells him. She chooses not to tease him for now about how many bad throws he made without any excuse of strategy. Solo's plan wasn't a complete failure; Gaby feels girlishly silly for it, but there's a warm glow inside her, knowing that she can distract Illya. Even if the stakes weren't very high. 

Illya leans his head back against the seat, looking at her. His hair is an unruly blaze in the evening light; hours of ocean wind have destroyed the straight lines he prefers. 

She likes it, seeing his edges softened like this. He will probably comb it the moment he notices just how messy it is: smooth it with pomade and water, make it properly regimented again. But she gets to enjoy it for now. 

He's still watching her, and she thinks about what he said last night on the phone. After sleeping through most of the morning, and then carefully maneuvering around the beach with a hangover this afternoon, she's tired. But she has an invitation to renew for this evening's entertainment. 

Sober Gaby, ready to be taught. Only one drink at the bar (to Solo's two--he was trying to impress the barmaid), and an unopened bottle of whiskey or Scotch, whichever this is. Illya didn't have any alcohol; too careful to drink in public when he doesn't have to. 

Her hands clutch that bottle while she thinks. Solo's mind had gone straight to sex--of course it did--but this feels like a very juvenile thing to ask, now that Illya sits next to her. They're both adults. Teach her to play chess, when she could probably persuade him to bang her senseless?

Last night she had the lubrication of rum and vodka to ease her past the anxiety of asking him. She sighs and starts talking in spite of her doubts. "I have only had one drink, in celebration," Gaby tells him. 

His lips curl upward just at the corners. "Yes, this is true." 

"And I have a brand-new chess set in my hotel room." Illya's eyebrows raise slightly at her revelation. She pushes ahead in spite of the nervous feeling in her stomach. "So I think we should go to my hotel and you can teach me to play chess." 

Gaby looks at him, wanting to see his reaction. His smile softens the stern lines of his face. "окэй."

"Ok," she echoes, her lips curving upward as well. The taxi pulls over at the intersection and Illya pays. He doesn't look flustered by the American money, which still confuses her. They step out of the taxi onto the warm sidewalk. Even though Groton isn't a big town, it has the Naval base and enough beach shore to draw in visitors. Gaby didn't know until two days ago just how close her hotel was to Illya's. That makes it easy to pick a spot between the buildings and walk, letting them check for any unusual activity around them before going inside. 

Not that she's really worried about it, but it's good spycraft, and it prevents Illya from grumbling at her. Besides, she's feeling generous with her time now. She still has two more days to enjoy after this one. Gaby had planned to invite Illya to play chess early this afternoon, but then Solo pulled his little Frisbee rematch stunt instead. It all works out, she thinks, as they walk slowly in the glow of sunset. 

_Too_ slowly. Why is Illya walking _this_ slow, she wonders after a few steps. She stops and stares down. " Deine Füße!" she exclaims. His feet are bare on the sidewalk. "What happened to the flop sandals?" 

"I left them in taxi," he confesses, shoulders hunched a bit. "They hurt."

She looks more closely at his feet. The skin between his big toe and second toe glows an angry red. Gaby clicks her tongue at him. "You need to put your dress shoes on now. You might get cut by some glass, walking on the sidewalk." 

He starts to say something, but Gaby cuts off his protests. "Your feet are more important than fashion."

Illya takes his black leather shoes out of the bag. He sits on the sidewalk to put them on, retying the laces as she watches. She feels a wave of affection for him then: his loose curls, his knobby knees close to his ears, his blond lashes shading his eyes as he looks at his shoes, the expression of concentration on his face. 

Gaby is dizzy with it, and then she realizes: she's _really_ dizzy. When was the last time she had any food? She quickly sits down, ungraceful with herself but careful to keep the whiskey bottle from breaking. Leaning against Illya's shoulder, she takes slow breaths, willing herself not to faint. 

"Gaby?" 

She hums in recognition.

"What is wrong?"

"Just a bit dizzy," she says, attempting to sound airy and unconcerned.

"Do you need water?" She probably does, but that's not the main problem; Gaby shakes her head, her hair sliding across his shoulder. "When was last time you ate?" 

"Yesterday morning," she admits, embarrassed to have done this again. For years of her childhood there was never enough to eat; she used to imagine herself past that hunger. Then then she spent more years training to dance through all kinds of pain. The result is that she doesn't always notice what her body is telling her. She forgets about food sometimes, especially when she's under stress. 

A whole new country and a frustrating mission make for a lot of stress. The food on the Naval base tasted wrong, so she didn't eat much during the meals served there, either. 

She sinks lower against him, and Illya sighs. He mumbles something in Russian; it's too quick for her to understand. The air and the warm sidewalk make her feel uncomfortably drowsy, like hospital sedatives. 

Illya stands up, pulling her with him. "Come," he says. "You will feel better if we get food now." 

She doesn't argue; instead she uses one hand to hold onto her bottle and the other to hold onto him. 

"Can you walk?" 

"Ja." She doesn't let go of his arm, and they amble slowly down the sidewalk. Illya has his arm around her back, making sure she won't fall if she gets dizzy again. 

"I don't want to put that skirt on again," Gaby tells him. Her day clothes are in the bag he's carrying now. "But I will if I have to, for food." Her beach wrap looks exactly like what it is, not like a dress. Not standard dress code for a restaurant this far from the beach. 

"I think I know a place we can go," he says. "Close, food is not bad. Not fancy, though." 

Gaby huffs out a laugh. "Solo is the one who cares about fancy." She could kill a cow and eat it right now. Fancy doesn't matter. 

Illya's not-fancy food place is only three blocks away, but it takes them nearly fifteen minutes to walk the distance. Gaby has time to inspect the building as they approach: a wide front, but not deep. Silver metal panels gleam under the street light; its shallow roof is curved rather than pointed. 

"This is a diner," Illya tells her. "It is an American tradition." His pronunciation of the word _American_ doesn't include ire or disdain for once, and he chose this place; Gaby decides that a diner must be a good thing to Illya. 

She half-expects he'll claim it's actually a Russian tradition, but he doesn't. He also doesn't open the door for her like usual; instead he pokes his head inside to look first. What he sees must reassure him, because after that he takes her hand and pulls her in, letting her trail behind him with the whiskey bottle in her other hand. 

"Elsbeth?" Gaby looks past Illya to see a tall woman smiling at him. "Can we come in dressed like this?" 

The woman Illya called Elsbeth looks them up and down, eyes narrowed: a thorough inspection. "Works for me," she then says with a cheery shrug. "Listen, if I put you in a booth, no one's going to know any better anyway." 

"Thank you," says Illya, and that's when Gaby realizes that something is different about his accent. It's subtle; she can't pin down _how_ he's changing it, just that he is. 

Interesting. 

Elsbeth walks them over to a corner. Gaby slides into the round booth first, followed by Illya. Her legs stick to the vinyl seat, but she's not going to complain. Better than putting on that itchy skirt again.

Elsbeth brings them both a one-page menu with handwritten changes and additions. A quarter of the items don't even look like they're in English. She thinks she recognizes a Greek dish or two. 

In spite of the single page, the number of choices starts to make Gaby's head swim. Illya shifts and pulls her in to lean her head against his shoulder. She takes deep breaths while Illya asks Elsbeth if she can bring them something to eat right now, because "Anna was in the sun too long today." 

Illya's hand is still behind her back, his long fingers curved around to her waist. Cool fingertips press against her bare skin there, under the beach wrap. It doesn't really help with the dizziness but she doesn't tell him to move his hand. 

A flimsy-looking paper bowl filled with pretzels plops in front of them, and Gaby eats at least half of them in under a minute. By the time Elsbeth comes back, the bowl is empty. 

"You sure weren't kidding around." She puts down two glasses of icy water and picks up the bowl.

Already Gaby is feeling much better. "Thank you," she tells the waitress. Then she takes a big drink of water and grimaces at how cold it is. Americans put ice in all their drinks, which Gaby finds ridiculous. It makes her teeth ache. 

"You guys ready to order?"

Illya orders some kind of sandwich called a sub, and a bowl of stew; he suggests the stew for Gaby as well. She looks at the menu with new determination. No stew. Something different. "I want a hamburger," she says. The name makes her smile, even though she knows that it's not the same thing anymore as the ground steak from Hamburg. It's a completely American food, which is what Gaby is ready to try. 

Something about Gaby's short request sends Elsbeth's eyebrows upward. "Is she a Pole too?" the woman asks Illya. 

A pole? What does that mean, she wonders. 

"Yes, Anna is also Polish," Illya says. 

Gaby gets the full force of Elsbeth's brown eyes checking over her. "Well, aren't you the prettiest little thing!" she declares. "My father came here from Poland in nineteen hundred, though I don't speak a lick of the language. I told Jan the other day how glad I am to see Poles coming here again, and getting good jobs too." 

'Anna' nods in agreement, while 'Jan' watches her. Does Illya speak Polish? Gaby thinks he must know some, or he wouldn't have used this cover story. 

Elsbeth finishes writing their order and heads over to one of the customers at the long counter. Gaby studies the woman as she bustles around the small diner. She's very tall. Her dyed blond hair is pulled up in a series of elegant knots, which add to her height. Deep lines bracket her mouth and eyes, like she laughs a lot. Gaby never got to see either of her mothers like this, with age so clearly marking them. 

Illya watches the waitress too, until he notices her looking at him. 

"So why Poland?" she asks. 

"It is easy to make Polish accent in English," he says. "Polish are better received than Russian." He looks around the room again; _casing the joint_ , Napoleon might say if he were here. "Not that Polish immigrants have good acceptance in U.S., but still better than Russians have."

"Hmph." It doesn't really answer the question about needing a cover just for food. It's not like Elsbeth was likely to refuse to serve him, Gaby thinks. The woman does her work with an easy professionalism: quick to serve the food, not lingering for unnecessary conversation most of the time. Illya has gotten the most attention of any of the customers here this evening.

He could have sat at the counter and kept his answers to short syllables, avoiding problems even if Elsbeth hated Russians. 

Gaby watches a man at the counter eat his hamburger; he's not using any utensils, just his hands, so she looks around and spots another couple in a booth doing the same. No fork and knife here--just hands around the hamburger. Same with the so-called French fries. 

Well, she's never been the dainty sort, so why not do as the Americans while eating their food?

Elsbeth brings a tray over and puts their large meals on the table. Gaby dives in without waiting for Elsbeth to finish putting Illya's food in front of him. It's messier than she thought--or maybe that's just her inexperience at this--but tasty and fun. The fries taste comfortingly familiar. The hamburger is lower-quality beef on a roll, but she likes it anyway.

The food is gone before her hunger is sated, so she steals two bites of Illya's sub sandwich when he's taking a spoonful of soup. He looks outraged but he can't say anything while his mouth is full of food. She sticks out her tongue at him. 

Elsbeth wanders back to their table to check on them. She looks impressed at Gaby's appetite. She turns to Illya and says, "So how did the giant Polish boy find a good little Polish girl?" 

This is the second time she's referred to Gaby as little; it's beginning to annoy her. The waitress doesn't wait for an answer from Illya, just smiles and admires the blush that her question was meant to elicit. "How long have you known each other?" 

"Just a few weeks," Illya answers. Gaby doesn't know what kind of story he has in mind for 'Anna' and 'Jan'; she watches him and doesn't try very hard to hide her amusement. 

"How long have you been in the U.S.?" That question is for Gaby; she has to decide what 'Anna' has done, so she goes with something resembling her own experience.

"Not very long. I'm still adjusting." Then she decides to take charge of her cover instead of letting Illya run the show. "Now that I'm here, I may go back to school." 

Illya's eyebrows raise but then his eyes crinkle and his lips twitch upward a bit. Prosperous immigrant 'Jan', so proud of 'Anna' and her plans. Showing off his would-be girlfriend to Mutter. _Oh Gott, Illya_. 

Gaby doesn't even know if Illya's mother is alive, much less what she looks like, but Elsbeth, with her tall blond figure, might well resemble her. She certainly has a maternal air as she teases 'Jan'. 

The first two days Gaby and Illya spent together, from West Berlin to Rome, he made little effort to please her until after she tackled him to the floor. Yet Illya has charm to spare for this waitress who may or may not resemble his mother. 

Illya still has soup left in his bowl and a few bites of sandwich that she hasn't stolen. Elsbeth says, "I'll come back later to see if you guys have room for dessert." 

"Actually, I would like a milkshake now," Gaby tells her. 

"What kind?" 

"Vanilla." 

Elsbeth goes back behind the counter to make the milkshake, and Illya says, "It will be too sweet." 

He's right. But Gaby takes at least four more spoonfuls than she would have if he'd said nothing. 

He eats the last of his sandwich and then his stew. Gaby gives in to an impulse--a hunch--and comments on it. "You finished your stew. Otlichno srabotano." _Very good_ is a phrase burned into her memory from the one time her Russian ballet teacher said it about Gaby's dancing. Illya's ears turn pink; Gaby has to look down--at first because she wants to laugh, and then because of a flash of something needy in his eyes. 

She's going to file that reaction away for later. 

Illya request dessert, to Gaby's surprise: something with a name that's neither German nor English. Elsbeth nods her approval as she confirms they have what he wants, and nods again when he says to make it two. 

Gaby gives him a look at his presumptuousness. "Maybe I don't want dessert," she tells him. The milkshake really was too sweet. 

"You will like this one," he promises. "And if you do not, I will eat both." 

Gaby wants to ask him what the dessert is, but she's feeling pleasantly full and a bit sleepy. It's just cool enough with the diner's air conditioning that she can lean against Illya again with the excuse of using him to keep warm. He doesn't object; instead he slides his fingers through the strands of her ponytail and she doesn't want to say anything because he might stop. 

She might be jealous of 'Anna', thinks Gaby. Anna who can come to this dinner with her maybe-boyfriend after a day at the beach.

Elsbeth returns to their table with two plates of the dessert: a Greek baked apple dish. And yes, it is good. 

"So I'm having a Greek dessert in an American dinner with my new _Polish_ -born friend." Gaby points her fork at him for emphasis on his borrowed identity. Illya doesn't answer; he just takes a bite of his dessert and raises one eyebrow. Copying Solo? It suits him well enough; she knows Illya has more of a sense of humor than what he lets on. 

As they finish dessert, they argue over which hotel to go to for the chess lesson. Gaby is in favor of Illya's hotel, because it's closer and his feet are already sore. Illya finally acquiesces and she picks up her bottle of whiskey again in triumph as he pays for the dinner. 

Even though the sun has set, there's just light enough outside that they can enjoy the brief walk to Illya's hotel. She would like it more if they were closer to the beach now, with the breeze, but it's still a beautiful evening. Gaby has this time with Illya now, and then another two days without work before heading back to London. And a bottle of whiskey that Solo had to buy for her instead of steal. 

They don't get moments like this very often, where they can walk around and not have to pretend to be something that they're not. 

Gaby would twirl around, but she decides against it; they're almost to Illya's staid business-class hotel, and she doesn't want to draw attention. They stick out enough already, wearing their beach clothes this far inland. 

She follows Illya's gesture to stay silent when they get to his room. He checks for bugs, working quietly and with meticulous attention. Gaby would help, but he has so much more experience doing this that it would probably take more time if she interfered. 

Maybe she'll ask him to help her learn this skill better if they work together again. Just--not now. Not while she's taking a holiday of sorts. 

What else does she need to learn? What else will she have to do if she continues in this life? Her first mission in Rome led to the death of her biological father, and of her mother's brother. Also Victoria Vinciguerra, and her husband Alexander--the only death she actually saw. A death at Illya's hand. 

Not that Gaby regrets it; better him than Solo, Illya, or her. Vinciguerra's ending was easier it might have been, she thinks. 

Istanbul was simple, at least in that way. Their mission here in America too, for all its futility, brought no troubled conscience; no nightmares other than those she already carried with her. 

So the worst is still ahead of her. Someday, waiting for her: her moment to be the nightmare in someone else's life. 

Unless she turns from the path she's on now. Gaby isn't drawn to spending a life in America, but she's intrigued (and occasionally amused) by American flexibility, the way they constantly try reinventing themselves. She could go to school: a comment she made half in jest at the diner, but it appeals to her. 

Or even a mechanic's job again--but maybe working with race cars this time, learning more about design...

Illya finishes his rounds and gives her a slight nod: her signal to stop thinking and move on to teasing him. He pulls a second chair close to the small table with the chess board, and starts resetting the pieces. 

Gaby takes the two upside-down cups from the desk corner; she sits down and deliberately puts her bottle of whiskey on the table, then twists open the cap. Illya looks at her with a hint of curious concern. 

"You can have a drink of this, but you're not allowed to enjoy it." His eyebrows go up ever so slightly. "It's too decadent," Gaby tells him, trying not to smile. 

He takes the bottle, pours a drink and them slowly sips, eyes boring into hers. And then it happens: he smiles just big enough that a dimple pops into view on his left cheek, and she feels ruined. Cheated that she has never seen this before. 

She sighs and tips out a much smaller amount of alcohol into her glass than she normally would. The rich, smoky flavor surprises her; it's worlds away from the cheap whiskeys Gaby has tasted so far. 

Belatedly she thinks about clinking their cups together, but decides it's too much trouble. She's never been one to stand on ceremony, and certainly not with alcohol. Besides, they're drinking from mugs; it's already an informal affair. "So tell me the rules," she says after he finishes putting the chess pieces into starting position. 

He picks up one tall, delicate piece in black, and the same shape in white. "This is queen. She is most powerful." 

That has her attention. Gaby stops trying to think of ways to tease him now and focuses on what he's saying. "She has most options in moves: vertical, horizontal, diagonal." He struggles for a moment with the vocabulary; difficult, Gaby thinks, taking something deeply ingrained in one language and teaching it in another. "Other pieces have limits. Rules." 

Illya looks across the table at her, all blue-eyed sincerity. "You are like this," he tells her, and she feels the warmth as it rises through her, a tide that flushes her neck and cheekbones. 

The phone jangles an untimely interruption, sending sparks through her and shocking her enough to almost drop her drink. Illya picks himself up stiffly to answer it: recalibrating from chess teacher to agent. 

She hates it. Hates knowing that it's almost certainly someone else with the KGB on the other end of the line. 

"Hello?" He's doing the fake-American voice again, the one she heard last night during her drunken call. 

His voice continues with the charade, long pauses and quick _yes_ es until his final _good-bye_. Gaby slumps deeper into the chair, because she knows what is coming next. Not the details, but the general idea. 

"I leave early tomorrow morning," he says, his expression stuck somewhere between soft sorrow and stern lines. 

Gaby never forgets that he's a KGB agent, but she let it be more distant today: between the warm sun at the beach and the generous servings of food at the American diner, it fell away from the top level of her awareness. 

"Where are you going?" The question slips out before she can stop herself.

To her surprise, he answers her. "New York." 

"Oh." 

He looks at her and pauses, like he's waiting for her next comment: a condemnation or an invitation? 

She breathes out, then in. "I'll let you pack, then." 

He takes this as condemnation, from the mostly-guarded expression that crosses his face. 

Maybe it is. 

"I'm going to walk back to my hotel," she says. 

"I'll go with you." 

She bats that idea away. "Your feet are already sore." 

"It is fine." He uses his _I'll accept no arguments_ voice. Maybe that would have scared her a month ago, but not now. 

"It's over a mile, and then you would have to walk back. And you still need to pack and get some sleep."

He shifts tactics. "Maybe you take taxi." 

Gaby scoffs at that. "It's not that far." 

He looks at her, analyzing, and then says, "A good chess teacher will ensure the best performance of his students."

That's hard to refute because it's so silly. He knows it, too; his lips twitch. 

If he's willing to be this ridiculous over how she goes back to her hotel, she'll give in. "Fine," she huffs out, and tries not to laugh at them both. 

Honestly, she's tired anyway; she can admit that to herself now. A bit footsore herself even without having worn cheaply-made sandals. Also, it's dark and she doesn't know this town. 

He's smart enough to turn away rather than let her see his victorious expression. "I will call front desk for a taxi." 

"I'm going to change out of these beach clothes," she informs him, and picks up the bag holding the outfits they'd worn to meet Solo earlier. Illya is dialing the phone already, and nods as she turns to go into his hotel bathroom. 

It smells of bleach; only one small kit and a couple of items mark this bathroom as occupied, rather than waiting for the next guest. 

She sets her clothes on the counter. Gaby doesn't want to put on the itchy skirt again, but she also doesn't want to ride a taxi in a strange town in a bikini and wrap. She'll blend in better wearing regular clothes, especially after dark. 

Dropping the purple wrap onto the floor for the moment, Gaby glances in the mirror. Her ponytail is a loose mess, and the white bikini resembles lingerie. She looks soft, vulnerable. Gaby pulls off the swimwear, her skin tingling where Illya's fingers brushed against her side earlier. 

She smoothes her hand across the gentle swell of her stomach and then upward, taking a stuttering breath. 

As a child she spent days--she doesn't know how many--living on the streets of Berlin. It was after her father left them, after her mother died. She remembers the hard-earned lesson of snatching whatever crumbs came her way, from hand to mouth before anyone else could take them. 

She wants to grab at Illya, gobble him up before he's gone again. 

Seducing Illya Kuryakin: she could use one of Solo's come-on lines. Her nose wrinkles at that thought. A better idea: she could tackle him to the bed and call him--what are the words? _Khoroshiy mal'chik. Good boy._

Gaby could spend a sleepless night in his hotel bed instead of hers. 

Instead of making up her mind one way or the other, she looks around this hotel bathroom. His shaving kit is zipped closed; toothbrush placed on the countertop, parallel to the edge, and a bar of soap that clearly doesn't come from the hotel sits next to the sink. 

She tries to push a few strands of hair into place and then washes her hands with the soap. It smells harsh, but also like him. It probably comes from Russia. Like him. 

Just over a month ago she was still keeping her childhood vow never to let a Russian man touch her. The two of them have only worked together for two weeks during that month. 

Tackle him to his bed or not, he will still leave in the morning. 

Her other childhood lesson about food: when you have a safe place to store something, you ration it. That's why she bought the chess set that's stored in her luggage back in her hotel room. 

Gaby puts on the itchy skirt--Solo needs to think about what the clothes _feel_ like when he gets them for her, not just how they look--and her blouse. Stepping out of the bathroom, she spots Illya smoothing his hair down with his fingers in the mirror by the closet. 

"You still owe me a chess lesson," she tells him. 

"Of course." He takes it as the careful offering she means it to be, his smile reminding her of that moment in Italy when he gave her back the ring. 

She glances again at his hair, back in mostly-straight lines. He couldn't redo it completely without water or pomade, so it still curls just a bit. Like it would have when he was little, maybe: tow-headed Illya with a halo of blond fluff. 

"Be careful."

Instead of scoffing, he nods. "You as well," he says, and the moment fills all of her senses in a synchronized wave: Illya's blue eyes meeting hers, his body warm and close, his hair waiting to be touched, his low voice a charged rumble in her ears... his lips hers to taste. 

His hand touches hers and he pulls her that last step toward him, so that she's almost between his long legs; Illya's head inclines toward hers, his eyes look down at her mouth, his chest expands as he breathes in and Gaby does as well and they almost collide just breathing in, and--

The phone rings. 

" _Verdammt_ ," she exclaims, and Illya rubs his eyes in frustration before he steps away to answer the phone. 

A clipped _yes_ this time instead of a fake accent, followed by, "Thank you."

She breathes in deeply and picks up her whiskey bottle from the table. 

"Taxi is here," he grumbles. His finger twitches once. 

Gaby sets the bottle down again, goes over to him and tugs him down while standing on tiptoe herself, planting her lips solidly against his for an all too brief moment. 

It's not the thorough farewell kiss they was hoping for, but it will have to do. She tastes the hint of whiskey on his lips as she pulls away. 

"Goodnight," she whispers, and picks up her bottle again.

* * *

Back in her own hotel she takes one more drink, slow and careful, of the expensive whiskey. Plenty of time to sip this; she can always get a refill of something less precious elsewhere.

She will leave the itchy skirt here when it's time to leave Connecticut. Solo will grouse about the price, and she'll remind him that he didn't pay for it.

The chess set will stay in the corner of her suitcase, carefully wrapped, waiting for the right moment to try it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently the first "Walk into a bar" joke was published in English in 1952.
> 
> * * *
> 
> In 1872 a Rhode Islander named Walter Scott repurposed a horse-drawn wagon to sell food. In 1877 Thomas Buckley began commercial manufacturing of 'lunch wagons' which eventually led to prefabricated buildings that allowed more seating. The diner was initially a northeast US phenomenon, but after World War II they had a boom period which increased with the construction of interstate highways. 
> 
> Many diners in the northeast were (and are!) operated by Greek immigrant families, leading to Greek dishes commonly showing up on diner menus. Milopita sounds delicious, by the way. Also, this fandom likes associating Gaby with apple desserts, so I'm going with tradition here.
> 
> The boom days of the diner dwindled as fast-food restaurants began their boom in the 1970s.
> 
> Groton has a long-time diner in the type of pre-fab building I described: [Norm's Diner](https://www.google.com/maps/place/Norm's+Diner/@41.3617328,-72.079292,15z/data=!4m2!3m1!1s0x0:0x96548de6762fdc17?sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjX2dvIodLdAhWMr4MKHQZpDD4Q_BIwD3oECAoQCw). I couldn't verify that it was in Groton in 1963, otherwise I might have used it. But the look is very much what I had in mind, if you take a peek at the photos. (Also, that food looks tasty.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Although Polish people have been coming to the USA since before its formation as a country, anti-Polish sentiment was a very real force. Stricter immigration restrictions were put in place in 1911, drastically reducing the number of Polish immigrants allowed. This continued until after World War II.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I studied many images of Armie Hammer smiling to verify that he does indeed have a slight dimple on his left cheek. It was, as you can imagine, a great hardship to do this kind of research, but I feel like it's important to be as accurate as possible in my writing. :)


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